The Ties that Bind
by boasamishipper
Summary: In a strange turn of events, Private Tully Pettigrew is captured on a mission and sent to Stalag 13, rumored to be one of the toughest POW camps in Germany. The guards are fierce, the punishments are ruthless, and no prisoner has ever escaped. But is everything what it seems?
1. Chapter 1

The Ties that Bind by boasamishipper

 **Summary** : In a strange turn of events, Private Tully Pettigrew is captured on a mission and sent to Stalag 13, rumored to be one of the toughest POW camps in Germany. The guards are fierce, the punishments are ruthless, and no prisoner has ever escaped. But is everything what it seems?

 **Author's Note:** Hi, everyone! It's great to be back here after nearly two years―and I notice that there are a _lot_ more fics here than the last time I checked, which is especially awesome. This particular fic has been in my WIP folder for nearly a year now, and I'm excited to finally get to it. I don't know how many chapters this will end up being (nor do I know how often it'll be updated, as I have another three WIPs at the moment), but rest assured, it will be a fun ride. :)

 **Disclaimer** : I am not nor have I ever been in the military, so some of the procedures described may not be accurate. The German used in this chapter comes straight from Google Translate, so I can't be sure regarding its preciseness. And although it pains me, I unfortunately do not own Rat Patrol or Hogan's Heroes. I'm just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

* * *

" _Invisible threads are the strongest ties."_

― _Friedrich Nietzsche_

* * *

Five o'clock in the morning was an ungodly time to leave for a mission, especially when they'd just gotten back from their previous mission less than twelve hours previous. Tully was ready to fall asleep standing up, and Hitch almost had on the jeep ride over. Moffitt had actually gotten a few hours of sleep, even if it had been on top of his books instead of in his cot. Troy, in contrast, looked wide awake and ready to complete their next mission. Whatever jazz was in his commanding officer's veins, Tully thought, he wanted a shot of it every time he left the base.

Captain Boggs, apparently undeterred by the fact that none of the members of the Rat Patrol had slept much in the last few days, had assigned them a mission to retrieve anti-aircraft shell fuses from a small village thirty miles away. Naturally, there was a catch; Captain Dietrich had been spotted there as one of the guards and in order to steal the shell fuses, the four of them would have to evade an entire camp of German officers. The odds were tough, but they'd faced tougher before. Tully was sure they could do it.

"You got some secret plan up your sleeve, Doc?" Tully asked on the ride over. Moffitt had been staring pensively into the distance for some time now, so he was sure that the answer was yes. "You've been mighty quiet."

It took Moffitt a few seconds to answer, and when he spoke it was as if his mind was a million miles away. "I'm attempting to formulate one, yes. But mostly I'm just worried. I've got a bad feeling about this."

"How so?"

The corner of Moffitt's mouth quirked upward into a half-smile. "We haven't had the best luck with the Germans lately, you know."

"Well, we never do." During the early years of the Rat Patrol, Tully and Hitch had started a betting pool as to which one of them would get injured whenever Captain Boggs sent them on complicated missions such as this one. But then Cotter had died and Moffitt had joined them—and the amount of times they got hurt increased—and their betting pool had died down to an old joke. _Thank God Sarge never heard about us doing it,_ Tully thought. _Otherwise he would have made us scrub the barracks with toothbrushes for a month._ "It'll be fine."

"I hope so." Moffitt didn't comment on his bad feelings further, instead changing the subject to an argument that he and Tully had been having the previous night over Franz Boas's novel _Race, Language and Culture_. Tully didn't mind for two reasons. One was that he was on the winning side of a debate for once. Two was that he didn't want to think about the upcoming mission either.

Just when Tully was about to go in for the kill, he noticed that Hitch's jeep was slowing down and instantly knew that they'd reached the camp. "We ought to save this debate for another time, Doc," he said. "I think we're here."

Sure enough, Troy signaled for them to come nearer and Tully quickly drove his and Moffitt's jeep up to Hitch's. Sandy grit forced its way into his mouth thanks to the wind but he didn't bother spitting it out. More would take its place soon enough anyways. It was worse though when he was chewing some of Hitch's bubble gum—the sweetness of the gum and the coarseness of the sand always made him choke.

Moffitt readjusted his goggles and exited their jeep while Tully rested on the hood of the car, his gun on his lap. "What's the plan, Troy?"

Troy's eyes flickered between them all. Tully exchanged a quick look with Hitch, both of them excited to hear the sergeant's plan of attack. "Hitch, you're with me—we're going to get the anti-aircraft shell fuses. Moffitt, I need you to spread a little mayhem and despondency to cover for us."

The British sergeant released a brief flicker of a smile at the mention of his often-used catchphrase. "Always a pleasure, Troy."

Troy rolled his eyes, but Tully would have to be blind to miss the fondness behind it. "Just try not to be too enthusiastic," he said. "And Tully, you go with Moffitt. See if you can keep each other in line."

"Right, Sarge." Tully had hoped he'd be able to go with Moffitt. He enjoyed spreading mayhem wherever they went. As much fun as going with Hitch and the Sarge was, nothing beat watching the faces of the Germans as their tents blew up around them.

As Tully and Hitch gathered the necessary equipment and Troy laid out the map of the encampment on the hood of the jeep, Tully nudged his friend's shoulder. "You shouldn't put extra ammo in your pockets, y'know."

"Yeah, and who are you, my mother?"

"Nah," Tully said calmly, barely holding back a grin at Hitch's mock-offended tone. "Just saying it'll hurt like extra hell if you happen to get shot there."

Hitch's reply was cut off by Troy motioning the two of them forward to look at the map. He went over the guard postings, which tent was which, and the amount of time that they had to complete this mission or else. Tully thought that in another life Troy would have made an excellent general.

"Any questions?"

Tully, Hitch, and Moffitt shook their heads.

They slung their gear over their backs and moved closer, huddled for a moment, heads nearly touching. Troy nodded, his expression serious as sin and twice as deadly as he tightened his grip on the shoulders of Tully and Moffitt. "Alright then," he said. "Let's shake it."

* * *

After Troy and Hitch had driven off to fulfill their end of the plan, Moffitt and Tully approached Dietrich's camp, which was a little Arab town that he'd taken over. They had parked their jeep about half a mile away in order to seem less suspicious—well, as less suspicious as possible since they were both carrying armfuls of smoke bombs.

"Once we're in the camp, we should split up," Moffitt told Tully for what felt like the hundredth time. "I'll set my bombs, you set yours. We'll meet up at the jeep; that can be our rendezvous point, in say, fifteen or so minutes. Once Troy and Hitch come back, we'll leave. You understand?" Tully nodded, absorbing this information. "Don't forget, the smoke bombs are timed, so once you set them down, run."

"How could I forget?" Tully asked with a half-smile at the sergeant. "I helped you make them."

Moffitt snorted. "Go on, Tully. I'll see you in fifteen minutes."

Getting in the camp was easy. The problem was trying to find inconspicuous places to stow away the smoke bombs; places that the Germans wouldn't think to look in, like near gutters or beside doorways. He just hoped that the innocents of the village wouldn't be too badly harmed by his and Moffitt's show of mayhem and despondency.

Once the bombs had all been placed, Tully snuck around, eventually settling behind one of the larger houses to spy on the Jerries that seemed to be flocking Dietrich and the soldiers everywhere they went. They weren't the average, run-of-the-mill Jerries though, he noted, observing that there were more differences than similarities between Dietrich and the other soldiers, who wore black uniforms, swastikas on their red armbands—

His stomach plummeted to his knees at the realization, and he pressed himself flat against the wall of the house. Dietrich had allied himself with the Gestapo. The Gestapo were in North Africa. How was this possible? God, he had to warn the others.

At this insight, Tully realized that he and the others were heading into a trap. He whirled around, intending to run away and warn them, but came face to face with a German bearing the insignia of a major and a thick mustache that rivaled Hitler's.

"What are you doing here, Private?" the major asked. Or that was what Tully thought he'd said. He'd spoken too fast. The only word he'd caught was his rank, Private.

"Uh..." Tully debated between killing the major then and there or running away and hoping for the best. He quickly decided that running seemed like the best option, so he took off at a sprint and after a few moments ran into several more guards, each with at least seventy pounds on him.

As the guards escorted him back to the major at gunpoint, he muttered so many curse words under his breath that had he been a child his mother would've washed his mouth out with soap for weeks. One of the men forced him to his knees, and he stared up with hatred at the people surrounding him.

"Hauptmann Dietrich," said the major (in English) to Dietrich, who had ambled up to the commotion, "what is this American doing here?"

Tully pleaded with his eyes for the captain not to say anything, but Dietrich spoke anyway—in his usual accented English, thankfully. He preferred to know what was going on when his life was at stake. "He operates with an elite unit called the Desert Rats, Herr Major. They often bungle up the work that we do down here. Very hard to catch too."

"Is that so?" Tully didn't like the major's suddenly feral grin. His eyes, too, differed from Dietrich's; the private couldn't see any sympathy or kindness reflecting there. That scared him more than anything. _Sarge, Moffitt, Hitch, where the hell are you?_ "What is your name?"

"Go to hell," Tully growled, which earned him a slap across the face so hard that he ended up seeing stars.

"I will only ask you once more," said the major, surprisingly calm, "or else I will turn you over to Fritz and Heinrich over here and have them get it out of you by force."

"Pettigrew," he spat, cursing his weak will.

"Tell me, Private Pettigrew, where is the rest of this elite unit of yours?"

"On another mission." The lie came so easily and quickly that he didn't even have to think about it. They could beat and torture him until the cows came home but he would never give up his friends to the Jerries. "I'm the only one here."

"I believe he is telling the truth, Major Hochstetter," said Dietrich, and Tully inwardly thanked him for lying for the sakes of Troy, Hitch and Moffitt. Surely the captain knew that if Tully was here, then the rest of his teammates couldn't be too far behind. "If the Rat Patrol were here then we would certainly know it by now."

 _Please, Doc_ , Tully inwardly begged, _please hold off on the mayhem for a little while longer. We've gotta convince this Kraut that I'm the only one here._

"Do you think anyone will miss him?" Hochstetter asked Dietrich. Tully's blood pressure skyrocketed because he didn't like where this was going either.

Dietrich actually had the gall to shrug. _Now I wish I hadn't jinxed things by thanking him._ "I do not know, Herr Major. I have seen the Rats travel with replacements before."

"Then it is settled." Hochstetter unholstered his pistol and pointed it directly between Tully's eyes. _Oh Jesus. This is really it. God help and forgive me, I know I've sinned, but please protect my friends and let them get out of here alive even if I can't, please—_

Dietrich's voice punctuated the blanket of fear. "Herr Major, wenn ich darf, habe ich einen Vorschlag."

"Es gibt keinen Raum für alternative Vorschläge." Whatever Dietrich had said, Hochstetter clearly wasn't having any of it. Tully wished he could pick out more than one word in five. "Er brach in das Lager und muss entsprechend bestraft werden."

"Mit allem Respekt, Herr Major, ihn zu töten wäre keine gute Idee."

Hochstetter and Dietrich locked eyes, and they at least seemed to be operating on the same wavelength now. Maybe there was some hope for him after all. "Was schlagen Sie vor?"

"Nimm ihn gefangener als Kriegsgefangener. Sie müssen von einem guten Platz wissen." Dietrich spoke calmly, and it just made Tully want to understand what the hell was going on even more. "Die Amerikaner werden Rache für seinen Tod suchen und das wollen wir nicht. Wir haben schon genug auf unsere Teller."

Hochstetter considered this, but his grip on the gun didn't waver. He looked down at Tully, who tried his best to look as blasé as possible because if he was about to die, he would do it with dignity.

Instead of pulling the trigger, though, Hochstetter barked a command in German, and before Tully could even begin to guess what the major had said, something slammed into the back of his head with the force of a bazooka.

And then all Tully Pettigrew saw was black.

* * *

Troy had never experienced emotional whiplash quite like this. He and Hitch had successfully stolen the anti-aircraft shell fuses from the main tent once the smoke bombs had gone off and all of the soldiers had gone off to investigate, and the two of them had escaped the little village before without being seen (or better yet not shooting anyone). He hadn't expected Moffitt to be waiting on the sand dune with the jeeps and a look of unholy terror on his face, asking them where Tully was.

The good feeling of a mission well done suddenly popped like a soap bubble. "What the hell do you mean, where's Tully? He was with you!"

"We split up to go and place the bombs! I thought we could cover more ground that way." Troy had never seen Moffitt look this frantic, not even when his father had been shot down. "I told him to leave as soon as he planted them and—"

Troy had been growing steadily paler throughout this conversation and now leaned heavily against the hood of the jeep. "You mean to tell me that you don't know if Tully got out or not?" How could he have? The smoke bombs had made it so foggy that he and Hitch had barely gotten out of there without getting lost. But they'd had each other, and Tully and Moffitt had separated…

 _Oh God, Tully._

"Sarge," Hitch said desperately, "what're we going to do? What if the Germans have him?"

And although Troy wanted nothing more than to go back down to the village with guns blazing, he knew that they were pushing their luck staying out in the open with all of those soldiers down there. Not to mention that the Germans would notice the missing shell fuses any moment now and come after them, and then what use would they be to Tully if all four of them were captured? So it was with a heavy heart and deep regret that he said, "We can't do anything now."

"What?" Moffitt looked as though Troy had suggested high treason—which, he supposed, leaving a man behind kind of was. "Troy, you can't be serious. We can't just leave him!"

"I don't want to leave him either, Moffitt, but we'll be no use to Tully if we get captured by the Germans and end up in the same place as him." Troy hoped against hope that Dietrich had found Tully; awful as it was, the German captain was Tully's best chance of remaining alive now. "We'll deliver the fuses back to Captain Boggs and then we'll work with intelligence to find Tully."

Moffitt seemed to understand Troy's logic, although Hitch didn't. "Sarge, that's not—"

"I don't care what it isn't. What it is is an order, so let's shake it and get back to base."

At Hitch's devastated look, Moffitt said quietly, "Come on, Hitch," and the three of them walked toward the jeeps. Troy got in the first one, and Hitch elected to drive Moffitt as the latter sergeant wasn't a very good driver.

Troy looked back at the village, where the smoke was starting to dissipate and the barest hints of German shouting could be heard. _This isn't it, Tully,_ he swore, hoping against hope that his thoughts were true. _We'll be back for you. I promise._

* * *

Twenty-four hours. It had been twenty-four hours since Tully had up and disappeared from the face of the earth, and although Moffitt had hoped that the four of them would be reunited by now, he was starting to think that that was not the case. Captain Boggs had been making numerous phone calls and speaking with intelligence officers and even sent a squad back to the village to see if Tully was still there—which he wasn't. Hitch and Troy were trying not to show it but Moffitt could tell that they, like him, were worried out of their minds.

When Captain Boggs called the three of them into his tent the second evening of Tully's absence, Moffitt didn't expect any good news and wasn't disappointed. "I've been looking into Private Pettigrew's disappearance, gentlemen, and there's been no sign of him at any prisoner of war camps within a hundred miles from here."

Hitch swallowed. "But there's no body yet, right?" At Troy's look, he quickly added, "Sir?"

Fortunately, Captain Boggs didn't comment. "No, Hitchcock, no body's been found. But no news isn't always good news. So," and he clasped his hands together as though drawing strength from a source deep within himself, "I've spoken to Colonel Quint and some other intelligence officers and we have no choice but to mark down Private Pettigrew as missing in action."

"Missing in action?" Moffitt's incredulity outweighed his politeness. "Captain, it's barely been a day."

"With luck you'll find him before the paperwork gets filed and that won't be for a month or so. It's a lot easier to reverse these things." He sighed, leaning against his desk. "Look, gentlemen, if you had any knowledge of Pettigrew's whereabouts then I wouldn't be doing this, but since you don't I have no choice."

Troy finally spoke up. "I don't like this, sir."

"Neither do I, Troy, but that's the way this has to be."

Troy looked ready to argue more, but Moffitt placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. In the silence that followed, he said, "Will you notify us if there's any news on Tully's whereabouts, Captain?"

"That I can do, Sergeant," said Captain Boggs. "Dismissed." Troy and Hitch exited the tent, neither of them looking particularly happy about this turn of events, but before Moffitt could follow them, the captain said, "Hold on a moment, Moffitt."

Moffitt stopped in his tracks and turned around to face the captain. "Sir?"

"Pettigrew was your driver, right?" _Is. He still is my driver. He's not dead._ But Moffitt nodded, and the captain continued. "I'll send along someone to be your replacement as long as you need one."

"Right. Er, thank you." Truth be told, he hadn't even given thought to a replacement driver. "Should I tell Troy and Private Hitchcock, sir?"

"Go on." Then, as though he'd sussed out Moffitt's actual question, he said, "I figured I'd tell you first because I knew you'd react the most rationally." Fair enough. Troy could keep a cool head in most situations but Moffitt honestly didn't know what his friend would do if the captain had sprung that on him. "And Moffitt?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Good luck. I hope you three can find your missing man."

Moffitt smiled for the first time since that fateful mission. "Believe me sir," he said honestly, "I hope so too."

* * *

Colonel Robert Hogan was thankful that their morning roll call had been cut short—even if he'd gotten used to operating on very little sleep due to the missions that he and the others did for London, he'd never get used to German winters. So when Klink came bustling out of his office and ordered Schultz to dismiss them immediately, he wasn't about to start complaining. Another minute of standing around out there and he might have lost a toe or two to frostbite.

There was almost a traffic jam to get back into the barracks, which were only a little warmer than outside. The moment the door closed behind him, Hogan made a beeline for Kinch, who had plopped down at the table with LeBeau to watch Newkirk beat Carter at cards. "Any news from London this morning?"

Kinch shook his head. "No sir, they've been quiet lately." He paused, tilting his head. "I wonder why Klink wasn't saying anything about why roll call got cut short this morning."

"Hey, that's a good point," said Carter, looking up from his cards. From where Hogan was standing, he hoped that Carter hadn't bet any money on winning this round. "Usually he never shuts up during roll call."

"Sounds like someone I know," Newkirk muttered.

Hogan couldn't help but snort at Newkirk's wisecrack. "You know, that is pretty suspicious," he said slowly, his mind whirring. "Maybe Klink's hiding something from us."

"How rude."

"Yeah, we'd never hide anything from him."

"Maybe we ought to listen in," Hogan said with a grin. "Just to make sure we aren't missing out on any fun."

The five of them made their way to Hogan's office and set up the coffee pot, Carter standing guard at the door. Not that Schultz would have been a problem with his proclivity for seeing and knowing nothing, but Hogan still wanted plausible deniability just in case Schultz decided to spill.

"—Herr Major, what a pleasure it is to hear from you! It really has been too long and—"

"Klink," came the irritated voice of Major Hochstetter, "I did not call you to exchange pleasantries—I have official Gestapo business I would like to discuss with you."

Hogan could practically see Klink straightening up on the other end of the line. "Of course, Major Hochstetter!"

"As you know, I have been out of the country on the orders of the Fuhrer's personal staff and I have recently taken an American soldier prisoner." Hochstetter inhaled, as though he was working up the courage to say something he really didn't want to say. "Though it pains me, your Stalag has never seen a successful escape and as such, I believe Stalag 13 is the...best place to house this man."

When Klink spoke, it was with his usual mix of pride and arrogance. "Major Hochstetter, it would be an honor, and I can assure you that the camp will—"

"I do not have time to be assured of anything, Klink. I will be back in a few days to drop off the prisoner and I will not have time to make sure that you do everything right."

"Of course not, Herr Major!" Hochstetter's reply was cut off by static, which prevented Hogan from hearing it, but he had a good idea of what had been said when Klink muttered, "Oh yes, Heil Hitler," and hung up the phone.

Hogan was aware of everyone's eyes on him, and he smiled. "Well, men, it seems we're going to have to tidy up the barracks," he said. "Let's make the new guy feel at home."


	2. Chapter 2

The Ties that Bind by boasamishipper

 **Summary** : In a strange turn of events, Private Tully Pettigrew is captured on a mission and sent to Stalag 13, rumored to be one of the toughest POW camps in Germany. The guards are fierce, the punishments are ruthless, and no prisoner has ever escaped. But is everything what it seems?

 **Author's Note:** Hi, everyone! Thanks so much for giving _The Ties that Bind_ such a warm welcome. Shoutout to Undomiel5 and tullyfan for their favorites, 2lieutenant, Undomiel5, and Whitepine2 for their follows, and Meg, Brosmom, 2lieutenant, Undomiel5, and tullyfan for their reviews. You guys rock!

 **Disclaimer** : I am not nor have I ever been in the military, so some of the procedures described may not be accurate. The German used in this chapter comes straight from Google Translate, so I can't be sure regarding its preciseness. And although it pains me, I unfortunately do not own Rat Patrol or Hogan's Heroes. I'm just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

* * *

 _"The ties that bind us are stronger than the occasional stresses than separate us."_

― _Colin Powell_

* * *

Tully was sick of travel.

For two days, he had been unceremoniously transported across North Africa, away from all recognizable territory, away from Captain Dietrich, away from Troy and Moffitt and Hitch. He'd traveled by foot and by jeep, getting sand everywhere and barely stopping for a break. Then he'd been forced onto a plane which seemed in danger of falling apart or getting blown out of the sky at any moment, landing in Germany―of all the places to go!

The entire experience felt like a nightmare, and not once had he left the company of Major Hochstetter, a man that Tully had come to regard as both supremely dangerous and supremely annoying. Tully had been analyzing his situation and knew that the major wouldn't kill him for asking questions (otherwise he wouldn't have been carted across the ocean), but he still had to be careful. All he had asked was where he was being taken, and Hochstetter had answered something about a Luftwaffe POW camp before snapping that it was none of his business.

 _Great man,_ Tully thought. _Real swell._

On the sixth day of his kidnapping, Hochstetter had shoved him into a car and snapped something at the driver, who had muttered some curse words in German before acquiescing. The destination was probably the POW camp that Hochstetter wanted to stick him in, and although Tully wanted nothing more than to make a run for it now, he knew that there was no way he could make it out of Germany and back to North Africa without help. As much as it pained him, he had to wait.

The sun had just begun to lighten the sky when the car pulled up to a gate. The driver spoke to someone that Tully couldn't make out before driving the car inside and stopping just outside a building—that had to be the Kommandantur. Suddenly the car door opened and Tully was yanked out by two guards, who then stepped aside to let Hochstetter exit.

While Hochstetter spoke to a fat sergeant, Tully took the chance to look around. Big camp, bigger than others that he'd seen back in North Africa. Seven barracks, at least that he could see. Lots of prisoners milling around. One man with a leather jacket and slicked-back brown hair caught his eye, but Tully didn't have the chance to do more than nod before the two guards grabbed his arms and led him up the steps to the Kommandantur, Hochstetter leading the way. When they reached the inner door, Hochstetter didn't even bother knocking, just walked right in.

A bald colonel with a monocle looked up from the near mountain of paperwork on his desk and the annoyed expression on his face faded instantly when he saw them. Standing up, he said, "Herr Major, danke für das Kommen, es ist eine Ehre—"

"Shut up, Klink." Tully was surprised but thankful that Hochstetter had spoken English. "This is Private Pettigrew, your new prisoner."

Klink (that was a stupid name if he'd ever heard one) barely spared him a glance. "Yes, yes. Major, can I offer you anything? Refreshments? A cigar?"

"No, Klink, I have no time." He sounded like he wouldn't have stopped for refreshments or cigars even if he had had time, and Tully wondered why Klink was so deferential to Hochstetter when he was of a higher rank. Was it a Gestapo thing? "I must be going—I have yet to report to Gestapo headquarters and there are matters demanding my attention that are far more important than you."

Hochstetter turned around, gave Tully one last disgusted look, and left, the two prison guards behind him.

 _Great. Now we're alone._

"So, Private Pettigrew," his name sounded like a curse word in Klink's mouth, "you were stationed in North Africa. This is Germany."

His cheeks colored slightly. "I'm aware of that, sir."

Klink didn't skip a beat. Either that or he hadn't heard the sarcastic remark. "Tell me, why has Major Hochstetter taken you so far from home?"

Before Tully could respond, the door to Klink's office suddenly opened, and someone that he vaguely recognized strolled through it. Air Force jacket, slick brown hair—wait, _now_ he remembered him. This was the guy that had given him a weird look when he'd been brought into the camp by the major. But what was he doing in here?

The man sidled up next to Tully, making him feel slightly uncomfortable. "Kommandant," he said casually, like they'd just bumped into each other at the grocery store, "why didn't you tell me we were getting a new prisoner? I would've had the men clean up the barracks for the occasion."

"Colonel Hogan, this doesn't concern you," Klink replied tersely.

"You don't have to say anything other than your name, rank and serial, you know," the colonel told him with a wink. Tully found himself preferring this colonel over his colonel back in North Africa. "It's all in the Geneva Conventions."

 _This guy knows his stuff. Bet he and Moffitt would get along fine._ Tully clamped his mouth shut. _Hope I can remember my serial number._ _I always get the last two digits mixed up._

Klink looked at him impatiently. "Thank you, Hogan. I was trying to figure out why Major Hochstetter would drop him off here but now it seems that I will never find out."

Colonel Hogan gave Tully a sympathetic once-over. "Bet it wasn't a fun ride over here," he said with a slight grin. "The major's so secretive he won't even talk to himself!"

Klink pointed at the door and shouted angrily, "Hogan, get out!"

"Aww, but Kommandant…"

"Hogan, you heard me, get out!" After a second of hesitation—during which Colonel Hogan didn't move a muscle and Tully blinked in surprise—Klink sighed dramatically, as though the world rested personally on his shoulders. "And take the boy with you. I'll question him later."

Before Tully could snap at Klink for calling him boy, Colonel Hogan grabbed Tully's arm, told the kommandant "Yes, sir," and left the office.

Tully wished he'd been given something warmer as he and the colonel walked across the yard. He took another quick look around—barbed wire fences, big dogs, bigger guards patrolling the fences—and realized that he was up shit creek without a paddle in terms of escaping. This was going to be harder than he'd previously thought.

"Sir?" he asked, causing the colonel to stop in his tracks and face him. "Where...uh, where am I going, exactly, sir?"

Colonel Hogan laughed. "Only the finest boarding house in Germany. Hot showers, beautiful women, good food, lovely heating system." Tully didn't have to be a genius like Moffitt to realize that the colonel was being sarcastic. "Welcome to Stalag 13, uh...I never got your name, actually."

Tully straightened up and saluted the colonel. "Private Tully Pettigrew, sir. Long Range Desert Group."

Colonel Hogan returned the salute and opened the door to the barracks. He gestured for Tully to go in first, which he did.

At first glance, the inside about as impressive as the outside. Double bunks were lined up crowding the dimly lit space, and there was a woefully inadequate-looking stove in the middle. A sink, a rough table and a few stools completed the decor. Several soldiers lounged on their bunks and some played cards at the table. Everyone was looking at him like he'd arrived amidst fireworks and explosions.

He gave the men a slightly awkward wave and turned to the colonel, intending to ask him which bunk was his, but the colonel had already gone off to talk to a black, mustached sergeant in the corner of the room. From what he could hear it sounded like they were talking about work schedules.

Tully felt very alone all of a sudden. True, he had been in another country for the last two years, but at least he'd had his friends. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but he missed Hitch and Sarge and Moffitt. He didn't want to be here.

"Fancy a game of cards?"

Tully blinked in surprise at the man who'd spoken, a dark-haired British corporal dressed in all blue sitting at the head of the table. "What?" he asked eloquently.

"D'you want to play a game of cards with us, mate?" The corporal slowed his speech, as though Tully had had trouble hearing him rather than understanding. _His British is a lot different than the Doc's..._ "I'm fixing to deal."

Tully shrugged. Why not? At least now he'd have a chance to get to know the others. "Alright," he said.

"Alright, then," the corporal said, and began to deal. "Cop a squat. You know how to play gin rummy?"

"A bit," Tully said slowly, trying to remember and hoping he wasn't confusing gin rummy with euchre or something. "Haven't played in ages though."

"Well, then I'll teach you." He stuck out a hand. "Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF."

"Private Tully Pettigrew," he replied, filing the name away for later. "Long Range Desert Group."

"Desert Group?" This was from another person at the table, a young man with an innocent boyish face. Didn't even look like he was in the military, but then again, who was Tully to judge? "There aren't any deserts in Germany."

"True," said Tully, taking his cards from Newkirk. As far as he remembered there weren't any deserts in Europe at all. He'd have to ask Moffitt to be sure. "The group I'm in operates in North Africa."

"North Africa?" Newkirk repeated loudly. This statement got the attention of everyone in the room, including the man that Colonel Hogan was talking to. "What're you doing here, then?"

"Same reason as the rest of y'all," Tully snapped, his accent thickening as it always did when he was upset. "'Cept y'all probably got shot down. I had the honor of kidnapped by some crazy Gestapo major with a mustache that rivals Hitler's when he was visiting Rommel's soldiers down in the desert."

"Mon Dieu." This exclamation came from a short corporal whose accent was decidedly French. "Why did Hochstetter take you?"

Tully shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said. Then something hit him. "Wait, do y'all know the major?"

"Oh, he comes around all the time," said the boyish-looking guy who'd spoken earlier. "He's always here to check if we're the ones behind the—"

"Carter," growled Newkirk, "shut up."

Carter—Tully filed away the name for later—shut up and took the cards. After a second or two of extremely awkward silence, another sergeant left and the colonel and the guy he'd been speaking to came over.

Colonel Hogan put his foot on the bench where the sergeant had been sitting. He leaned forward, his arm on his thigh, and gestured to his men. "This is Sergeant Carter, this is Corporal Newkirk, the guy who just left was Sergeant Olsen, I was just talking to Sergeant Kinchloe, and that's Corporal LeBeau," he said, pointing at each man in turn. "Sorry I didn't introduce you earlier."

"Call me Kinch," Kinchloe corrected. _Seems nice enough._ "It's Tully, right?"

"Yes sir."

Kinch looked taken aback at being called sir, but Tully didn't know him well enough to call him Kinch and he wasn't about to call the man Sarge. "Welcome to Barracks Two. There's an empty bunk above mine you can use. The food's not great, but since we have Louis, here," he jerked his thumb in LeBeau's direction, "we eat well enough. Showers are once a week; no hot water but you'll get used to it."

"I'm alright with that," Tully said, releasing a slight chuckle. "I've been in the desert for the last two years. I'm in need of some cold."

"Last two years?" Newkirk asked, the card game forgotten. "Blimey, how old are you?"

"Twenty."

This elicited more awed exclamations from the other soldiers.

"You're probably one of the youngest soldiers we've got here," said Kinch.

Tully shrugged, uncomfortable with the attention. "Yeah, I bet." He turned to Newkirk, who was taking out a matchbox. "Mind if I bum a matchstick?"

Newkirk handed him the half full matchbox. "Need a cigarette as well?"

"No thanks," he said, waving off the cigarette as he stuck the end of a matchstick in his mouth, instantly calming himself down, and set down the matchbox in front of Newkirk again. "I'm alright."

Newkirk looked at Tully like he'd announced a sudden desire to become a ballerina. "What the bloody hell are you doing, Tully?"

"Chewing on a matchstick," Tully replied, gesturing. It seemed pretty obvious. "Calms me down."

"I think it looks cool," Carter proclaimed. He then took out a matchstick of his own and stuck the end of it into his mouth. "Hey, yeah," he said, his words garbled as he chewed around it like a toothpick, "this is kinda nice. I'm gonna tell my friends back in Bullfrog about this."

"I think you're all barmy," Newkirk announced, and the laughter in the room almost made Tully stop thinking about what Newkirk had stopped Carter from saying.

Almost.

* * *

Troy knew that this was a bad idea, but over the last seven days he had run out of ideas on how to solve the problem of Tully's disappearance. Intelligence hadn't found anything and the village (and the villages nearby) had been searched three times over with no sign of Tully anywhere. At this point, he was willing to do anything if it would yield some actual results—even if 'anything' wasn't necessarily on the line of straight and narrow. He wouldn't give up; he _couldn't_. Not when the alternative was writing a letter to Tully's family to say that their oldest son was missing (not dead, Tully _wasn't_ dead) on account of Troy's stupidity.

Hitch and Moffitt had insisted on going with him once they'd found him at the motor pool the prior evening with a pocketful of weak explanations and information from intelligence, and he couldn't bring himself to tell them to stay behind. If something went wrong and he was captured, he wanted them to have his back. Not to mention that Tully was their friend too.

The three of them arrived at the German campsite at dawn. Hitch's expression was serious as sin and Troy found himself hard-pressed to recall a moment in which the man had looked more determined and focused than now, and Moffitt's grip on their maps was white-knuckled, as though he was afraid someone would take them. They could do this. It was a long shot, but it was the only shot they had.

Troy led the way, stopping just outside the main tent. He poked his gun against the tent flap, raising it slightly so he could see the inside of the tent, and then retracted it. Good. Just as he'd hoped. "We don't have long," he said to the others in an undertone. "C'mon."

He pushed the tent flap open and walked inside, Hitch and Moffitt half a step behind him. A man didn't look up from where he was working at an old wooden desk. "Was auch immer es ist, es sollte besser wichtig sein."

"Don't worry, Captain Dietrich," Troy said, unable to keep himself from being sarcastic. "We won't take much of your time."

He expected Dietrich to reply in the same vein, not to visibly slump like the life was leaking out of him bit by bit. "Ah," he said quietly. "Sergeant Troy. I suppose I should have expected you and the other members of the Rat Patrol by now."

Troy frowned, but his gun didn't lower. Neither did Hitch's or Moffitt's. "You were at the same village that one of my men went missing from," he said, keeping an admirably polite tone. "Tully Pettigrew. Do you know what happened to him?"

"I do."

Moffitt startled. "And?" the other sergeant prompted. He sounded like he was trying desperately not to get his hopes up. "Do you know where he is?"

"No." Dietrich sighed. "Though I suspect knowing his location would not do him any good."

Nausea gripped him tight and refused to let go. Troy didn't want to ask, but the words escaped unbidden. "What do you mean?"

After a moment of hesitation—was Dietrich actually nervous?—the German captain stood up and met Troy's gaze evenly. "Because your man was discovered by a member of the Gestapo."

The Gestapo. Oh, hell. Troy heard someone inhale sharply behind him but he kept his attention of Dietrich, who (much to Troy's dismay) did not seem to be lying.

Hitch managed to speak first. "Why was someone from the Gestapo here?" he demanded. "I thought they were all in Germany."

"Major Hochstetter was sent to assess our campaign and was…how do you say it? Shadowing me?" Troy nodded numbly, and Dietrich continued. "It was the last day of his visit. He discovered Pettigrew sneaking around and interrogated him for information."

Troy steeled himself. "Then what?"

Now Dietrich looked uncomfortable. "Hochstetter was prepared to shoot Pettigrew but then he changed his mind and knocked him unconscious instead."

After being Tully and Hitch's commanding officer for two years, Troy was well adept at knowing when parts of a story were being omitted. "Why'd he change his mind?" He barely managed to keep his voice down. "I doubt it was out of the goodness of his heart."

"As I said," Dietrich said, still looking uncomfortable, "I was there." A pause. "I convinced Major Hochstetter to spare his life at that moment—"

"What do you mean, at that moment?" Moffitt sounded furious, and rightfully so. Troy was too stunned by Dietrich's words to say anything, and Hitch looked like he'd been hit in the face with something heavy. "Did you not bother to convince him a second time?"

"Let me remind you, Sergeant," Dietrich snapped, looking as though he had finally lost his patience, "I am under no obligation to tell you anything, so I advise you to let me finish." Moffitt kept quiet and Dietrich continued. "Major Hochstetter ordered his men to take Pettigrew to his personal jeep and tie him up so once he awoke he could not escape. He said he would take Pettigrew to a POW camp, but then he said that he had a better idea once he was already in the jeep. He did not tell me where your friend was taken, and I have not heard from him since."

 _Oh no._ Troy hadn't felt like this since he'd seen Cotter get hit by enemy fire and slump bonelessly over his machine gun. Bile rose in his throat and he thought he was going to be sick right there in the tent. Behind him, Hitch stumbled backward in shock, and Moffitt was completely motionless _. Oh God, Tully._

"Are you saying…" Hitch's gun was shaking in his hands but his voice was remarkably steady. "Are you saying Tully's dead?"

"No," Dietrich said. Troy didn't look up; his hopes had been dashed too many times already. "I am saying I do not know for sure, but knowing Major Hochstetter's character, if he is not already then he will be soon."

 _Then he's either dead or vanished off the face of the earth_ , Troy thought numbly. _Dietrich's right—I never should have asked._

* * *

Tully had nearly fallen off his bed when Schultz, the sergeant of the guard, had raced into the barracks that morning and told them to get outside for roll call—he'd expected there to be a siren of some kind, not a personal wake up call. None of the other men seemed to mind; Colonel Hogan and Newkirk and LeBeau were friendly to the sergeant and teased him about his weight. Instead of throwing them in the cooler, Schultz had rolled his eyes, called them jolly jokers, and escorted all of them outside. Klink lectured them for more than ten minutes about the no-escape record while Tully wondered if he'd die of boredom or frostbite first.

Once they were free to go, he decided to stay outside—he wanted to start planning his escape and smoke a cigarette or two, feeling that would warm him up better than chewing on matchsticks—and headed to the other side of the barracks, where three men were sitting on a bench and talking amongst themselves. "Sorry," he said, holding his hands up when they all looked his way. "I'll leave."

"Nah, it's alright," one of them said, grinning in a way that seemed to exude confidence. "You can stay."

"Thanks." Tully leaned against a wall, digging around the pocket of his pants for one of the cigarettes that he'd won from Newkirk in a game of cards last night. "Any of you have a light?" The one from earlier—a sergeant, he noticed—handed him one, and he nodded gratefully. "'Preciate it."

"Anytime," the sergeant said. "Name's Olsen, by the way."

"Good to meet you, sir."

Olsen snorted. "No need for sirs unless you're talking to the colonel, kid. We're pretty informal around here."

"Fine by me," Tully said, shaking Olsen's outstretched hand before doing the same to the others nearby, a kind-looking man who was fiddling with a crucifix charm in his right hand and a black man with a green cap shoved over his curly brown hair. "Name's Tully. And the rest of y'all?"

"Name's Baker," said the black man.

"Thomas," said the other man, putting his crucifix charm back in the pocket of his coat. Tully vaguely remembered all three of them from the barracks, but Colonel Hogan had introduced him to so many people last night that he was grateful they'd introduced themselves again. "So—we heard through the grapevine that you were in North Africa. What's the fighting like over there?"

He was a little taken aback by the way the question was phrased. "Bloody as usual," he said slowly. "No difference except y'all are fighting Nazis and we're fighting Rommel's guys."

"You've gotta give us a bit more than that," Baker said with a laugh, and continued before Tully could ask why. "You're the first guy in this camp who wasn't shot down fighting in Germany."

"Basically," said Thomas, "you're new. Makes you automatically interesting."

"Well, I won't be here for much longer," Tully said, unsure of why he was even telling these guys his barely-formulated idea but hey, maybe they would agree to help him. "I'm going to escape."

They stared at him, perfectly silent for about five seconds, and then they all cracked up in laughter. Tully's cheeks flushed as some of the guards turned to see what was going on. Schultz in particular looked like a moral conniption was preventing him from walking over to see what was going on. It kind of reminded Tully of when his siblings used to act obnoxious during Sunday services and the people in the booths around them looked like they wanted to chastise them personally but couldn't interrupt the minister's sermon out of an obligation to the Lord.

"Oh, boy." Olsen wiped a few tears from his eyes, releasing a few weak chuckles as he leaned against Baker. "Boy, you've got another thing coming. Escape from Stalag 13. That's a good one."

"It's possible!" Tully protested, slightly offended by their lack of faith in him even though the rational part of him reasoned that they'd only just met him. "I've escaped from POW camps before!" Granted, he'd had help from Hitch and the Sarges, but he had been sure that the others would help. He'd thought that they could all escape together—the news of that would have certainly wiped the annoying smirk off Major Hochstetter's face.

"Kid," said Baker, "lemme reiterate the words of the Iron Colonel." He contorted his body slightly, shook his pointer finger right in Tully's face, and exclaimed in a perfect German accent: "No one escapes from Stalag 13!"

That sent Thomas and Olsen into a fit of laughter again, and even Tully had to bite back a smile at the near-perfect imitation of Colonel Klink. All Baker needed was a monocle and a Luftwaffe uniform. Still, Tully didn't want to just give up. "But if we all work together I bet we could," he insisted. "Don't you _want_ to get out of here and go back to fighting?"

Their faces, once filled with mirth, hardened and became serious. "Of course," said Olsen. "But what we're doing here is more important."

 _Okay, I've heard all sorts of bullshit from army guys since I joined up after Dunkirk, but that has to take the cake. What exactly are they doing here that's so important?_ Unconvinced, he simply raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly do you do here?"

Baker and Olsen exchanged glances, both of them looking unsure of what to say. Thomas opened his mouth and closed it again, clearly unable to come up with anything.

"I see," Tully said, not even bothering to hide his sarcasm this time. "No offense, Olsen, but I think it's better to really give it to the Jerries than sit around here doing nothing." _God, I sound like Sarge._ His shoulders slumped. If someone had told him a few years ago that he would be wishing to return to an active war zone he would have laughed at them, but now the desire to be back with Hitch and Moffitt and Troy was so strong that it rivaled his usual pangs of homesickness.

"And how did you really give it to the Germans, as you so put it?" Baker asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Spread a lot of mayhem and despondency, mostly," Tully answered with a faint smile, still caught between memory and reality. "The unit I was with really messed up the German operations."

The glance between Olsen and Baker seemed to convey a thousand things, even if Tully couldn't identify what they were. Did it have anything to do with what Newkirk had stopped Carter from saying the other night? He had a feeling that there was something lurking beneath the surface of this POW camp; he just couldn't put his finger on it.

"Enough about that, though," Thomas said quickly. "What did you do before the war, Tully?"

And while Tully explained to Baker and Thomas how he'd used to run moonshine with his cousins back in Kentucky, he didn't notice Olsen getting up to leave to speak with Kinch and Colonel Hogan. Unbeknownst to him, there was a very different conversation going on several feet away.

"Well, Olsen?"

"He's definitely not a spy, Colonel."

"Kinch? Did you find out anything?"

"I radioed London and they did some research. The Long Range Desert Group does exist, and there is a guy in there named Tully Pettigrew. Someone named Colonel Quint filed paperwork to list him as MIA as of a few days ago."

"Alright, that adds up. Do you think he wants to stay and help, Olsen?"

"Doubt it, sir. Seems like he wants to go back to his side of the war but who knows, maybe once he figures out what we do he won't be so eager to leave. He said his old unit was good with messing up German operations; he could be useful."

"I'll ask him myself, then. Tell him I want to see him in my office tomorrow night."


	3. Chapter 3

The Ties that Bind by boasamishipper

 **Summary** : In a strange turn of events, Private Tully Pettigrew is captured on a mission and sent to Stalag 13, rumored to be one of the toughest POW camps in Germany. The guards are fierce, the punishments are ruthless, and no prisoner has ever escaped. But is everything what it seems?

 **Author's Note:** Hi, everyone! Sorry for the delay, but I'm pleased to welcome you back to another chapter of _The Ties that Bind._ It's mostly a transitional chapter this time, but things are starting to heat up and I'm really excited to see where things go from here. Shoutout to snowleopard13 and We'retheDesperateMeasures-ODST for their follows, klester1987c for their favorite, and Meg, 2lieutenant, and snowleopard13 for their reviews. You guys rock!

 **Disclaimer** : I am not nor have I ever been in the military, so some of the procedures described may not be accurate. The German used in this chapter comes straight from Google Translate, so I can't be sure regarding its preciseness. And although it pains me, I unfortunately do not own Rat Patrol or Hogan's Heroes. I'm just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

* * *

" _You walk cool, but darlin', can you walk the line / And face the ties that bind…"_

— _Bruce Springsteen_

* * *

Private Andy Collins had been sent over from Sergeant Simmons' unit yesterday, and neither group seemed too happy with the current arrangement. Hitch couldn't really blame Moffitt and Troy for not giving Collins the time of day—Moffitt had been quieter than normal since their visit to Dietrich and Sarge was stressing himself out trying to write a letter to Tully's mother, saying it was his responsibility even though Captain Boggs had already offered. That left it up to Hitch to make friends with the kid.

Collins was from Chicago. He was nineteen, barely a year younger than Hitch himself. He had auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose, and, to differentiate himself even further from the man he'd replaced, he never stopped talking. Not while driving, not while on a mission. He even muttered to himself when no one was listening. It was apparently driving Moffitt up a wall, and Hitch couldn't blame the sergeant one bit.

Two days after Collins' arrival, they were sent on a mission to steal some microfilm from a German HQ in the middle of nowhere. Troy and Moffitt had snuck in to steal it while Hitch and Collins were ordered to stay behind and act as getaway drivers when the moment arrived. The two of them sat in silence on the hood of Hitch's jeep for a while before Collins spoke up. "Say, Hitch?"

Hitch popped a piece of bubble gum in his mouth, bracing himself for another rambling anecdote or lengthy question. "Yeah?"

"Who was the guy that I replaced?"

His head snapped up and he looked slowly over at Collins, sizing him up. "His name is Tully Pettigrew," he finally said. He _refused_ to mention Tully in the past tense; if there was still a chance that his friend was alive then he wasn't about to tempt fate. "He's a private like me and you."

"Oh." Collins blinked. "My CO told me he got killed."

"He's not dead," he snapped. His throat was so tight that he was kind of surprised any words had managed to escape at all. "He's just—missing. MIA. He'll come back." _He has to._

"Right," Collins said. He didn't sound like he believed him; not that Hitch expected him to. But instead of pushing the matter further, he just brushed some sand off his face and said, "Did you meet each other here?"

Hitch shook his head. "Commando training." The anger that had flared up in his gut so recently was now fading away, and he cast his thoughts back like a fishing line through time. "We both enlisted after Dunkirk," he said, neglecting to mention his parents' reactions when they found out he dropped out of Yale to enlist in the army. They'd threatened to cut him out of their wills, but he'd remained steadfast. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many letters they'd sent him since he'd been deployed. "Got sent to commando training in Texas and became friends from there."

"I was sent to commando training in Texas too," Collins revealed. "I enlisted a year after Dunkirk, though. Probably missed you and Pettigrew by a bit." He stretched his arms over his head, reawakening stiff muscles. "What's he like?"

"Quiet. Smart. Funny. Best jeep driver this side of the desert—no offense." Collins held his hands up to show that no offense was taken. "I always trusted him to watch my back." He looked down at the gun in his lap. "He got taken by the Gestapo when we were on a mission recently." He chuckled, but it was without any humor. "I don't know if he's still alive, actually. All we've got is hope."

"Yeah, well," Collins said, clapping a hand to Hitch's shoulder. "A little hope never killed anyone, right?"

Hitch smiled despite himself. "Right."

He still missed Tully like hell, but maybe this kid wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

Over the past couple of years, Tully thought he had seen it all. He'd broken out of prisoner of war camps, impersonated German soldiers, held people hostage, and was part of a unit with a reputation for accomplishing six impossible things before breakfast could be served in the mess hall — but when Olsen had told him that Colonel Hogan had wanted to see him, he hadn't thought that it would lead to a conversation like this.

It was amazing how much a no-escape record hid. Secret tunnels beneath the camp. Docile guard dogs. Constant reconnaissance missions. A bug in Klink's office. Sneaking out soldiers in Tully's situation to other POW camps or back to England, where they resumed fighting. And all under the nose of the Gestapo, the Luftwaffe and the Iron Colonel himself. It was enough to make anyone a bit lightheaded, and he suspected that was why Hogan had insisted that he sit down before beginning the meeting.

 _Lord, and here I thought that we were all that,_ he thought, shaking his head in disbelief. _Colonel Hogan and his crew make us look like a bunch of amateurs, and they've been playing the kommandant like a fiddle this whole time._

"...and that's what we're trying to accomplish here, Tully," Hogan was saying. Tully sat up straight, forcing his shell-shocked brain to return to the conversation and stop thinking of what Troy and Moffitt and Hitch would say if they knew what was going on here. "I want you to think carefully before you make your decision. Do you understand the risks involved?"

He'd have to be an idiot to ignore the risks of what these prisoners were doing, but he simply nodded and said, "Yes sir."

"If you don't feel you're up to this, we can arrange for a transfer to another camp where you won't have this kind of responsibility. Where you can just be a regular POW. Or we can help you escape to England, if that's what you want."

Wait. Was the colonel asking him—was he being asked to be a part of their operation? It made sense in a way. Hogan had said that he'd had Kinch (who apparently operated their communications systems in the tunnels below) radio London and look into him, and he'd talked to Olsen, so they definitely knew of his ability to throw a wrench into German operations.

And what if he did stay here? He didn't speak German well enough to accompany Hogan and the members of his main crew (Carter, Newkirk, Kinchloe, LeBeau — all of whom had probably been sizing him up his first night in the barracks) outside the fence, but he could learn. He could be a getaway driver, be a silent spy. He could help destroy the cause of the war at its roots.

He could stay here. He didn't have to go back. But even as Tully considered the opportunity before him, he knew he ought to turn it down. Hitch and Troy and Moffitt didn't deserve to forever wonder why and how he'd disappeared off the face of the earth. They were probably worried sick about him—and they were his friends, the closest ones he had. He couldn't do that to them. And he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he chose to stay here and his friends got killed when he couldn't watch their backs.

"Colonel, I really admire what y'all are doing here." Tully let out a breathy laugh at that understatement. Admiration didn't cover it; he was utterly blown away. "And I appreciate your offer, don't get me wrong, but I have to get back to my side of the war." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and gazed at the colonel imploringly. "I know you've sent soldiers back to England and other POW camps before, but is there any way to get me back to North Africa?"

When Hogan didn't reply for several seconds, Tully worried that he'd gone too far, but then the colonel spoke. "I've never had to get someone to North Africa," he began. The ball of hope that had started to form in Tully's gut withered. "But I'll see what I can do. I'll have Kinch radio London tonight."

"Thank you, Colonel."

Hogan waved him off. "Don't thank me yet," he warned, but Tully couldn't stop himself from grinning. Maybe he could get out of this situation alive after all.

* * *

 _Mrs. Sarah Pettigrew_

 _122 Farmdale Rd_

 _Clay County, Kentucky_

 _Dear Mrs. Pettigrew:_

 _My name is Sergeant Sam Troy of the Long Range Desert Group. Over the past year and a half, I have been your son's commanding officer, and the duty of writing this letter has fallen to me. Eleven days ago Tully was declared MIA after he disappeared on a mission. I understand that you've probably received a telegram from the Army by now, but I figured I'd do the courtesy of telling you in person._

 _I don't know if Tully is dead or alive, but I promise you that no matter how long it takes, the rest of the unit and I will do our absolute best to figure out what happened to him and, if possible, bring him home. You have my word._

 _I'll write you again when I have more news._

 _Stay strong._

 _-Sgt. Troy_

* * *

This paperwork was enough to drive a lesser man mad. Ever since he'd returned from North Africa with the American soldier that he'd given to Klink, he had been stuck at his desk writing reports and filing paperwork. Never mind that he had been in Tunisia on the orders of the Fuhrer's personal staff—General Burkhalter would probably send him to the Russian Front if he left his paperwork undone for another day.

Hochstetter put down his glass of brandy, sighing. Sometimes he regretted that he'd given the American to Klink before he could interrogate him at Gestapo Headquarters. Even a private was bound to have useful information, and if the North Africa campaign would end in victory for the Axis Powers based on Hochstetter's ingenuity, he would probably be promoted to general. But he sensed that the time for that had passed, even if he took Pettigrew out of Stalag 13 now.

His gaze shifted between a letter that his secretary had brought in yesterday and the remaining stacks of paperwork on his desk—the decision was an easy one. Using the letter opener nearest him, he tore open the envelope and began reading.

 _Herr Major:_

 _I would like to once more extend my thanks for visiting my troops in Tunisia recently—I believe that your presence raised morale in more ways than one, and my men are now more ready to fight against the Allies than ever. (I do regret that your visit ended with such commotion, however; is the American that you captured still alive or did you dispose of him?)_

 _I wish you luck with your work and I hope that we both come out of our respective campaigns with ease._

 _Freundliche Grüße,_

 _Hauptmann Hans Dietrich_

He had not expected to hear from Dietrich so soon, if at all; nor did he expect the captain to ask after Pettigrew. He certainly wouldn't care if Hogan was taken out of Germany. Perhaps all of that time in the desert had made Dietrich soft, and that would not do. Not at all. He took out a fresh piece of paper and began to write back.

 _Herr Hauptmann:_

 _I am always willing to help the cause, no matter the distance from the Fatherland. Good luck in Tunisia, and do not worry about the American. He has been disposed of._

 _Grüße,_

 _Major Wolfgang Hochstetter_

He set the paper aside, satisfied. _Good,_ he thought. _Now to make this a reality._

* * *

Klink had ended roll call early to answer an important phone call from Hochstetter, which had interrupted Hogan's favorite part of the colonel's morning speech (how they'd be fools to try to go against him and Stalag 13). Nevertheless, he'd herded everyone back into the barracks and told Carter, Newkirk, Kinch, and LeBeau to set up the coffee pot. As an afterthought, he invited Tully too. He was willing to bet a week of hot showers that Hochstetter's phone call had something to do with the kid.

LeBeau stood guard by the door, and Tully leaned against the wall, fiddling with the zipper of the jacket that Olsen had loaned him. Newkirk was teasing Carter about how badly he'd lost at cards last night, and Hogan signaled for everyone to be quiet when Kinch looked up and gestured that the coffee pot was connected.

"—Herr Major, I don't understand," Klink was saying. "Why do you want to remove Pettigrew now?" Wordlessly, everyone turned to look at Tully, whose face paled considerably at the sound of his name. "Under my leadership there have been no incidents here and—"

"Klink, I did not call to listen to you brag about yourself!" Hochstetter snapped. "Your Stalag may have an excellent reputation but since I cannot say the same about its kommandant, I believe that Private Pettigrew would be better situated at Stalag 8 under the watch of Major von Scherbach."

"Major von Scherbach?" Klink repeated, sounding more stunned than angry. Hogan bet that his monocle was in danger of falling off. "But Herr Major—"

"Enough! I will be at Stalag 13 in three days to collect Pettigrew, and I do not want to be accosted with more whining when I arrive. Heil Hitler."

After Klink hung up the phone, Hogan felt rather than saw everyone look at him for guidance. Tully looked more confused than frightened, and Hogan was suddenly reminded that the private wasn't fluent in German like most of the men in the barracks were by now. "Seems you'll be leaving camp sooner than expected," he commented. "Major Hochstetter wants to take you to Stalag 8."

A bit of color returned to Tully's face. "What's Stalag 8 like?"

"Not great," Newkirk told him. That was a bit of an understatement. They'd gotten several escapees from Stalag 8 over the years and if there was one thing their stories had in common, it was that Major von Scherbach was fearsome enough to make even Hochstetter proud. That Stalag actually deserved the reputation that Stalag 13 had—fierce guards, ruthless punishments and all. "This place is a bloody hotel in comparison."

Hogan turned to Kinch. "Any word from London about getting Tully to North Africa?"

"They say he can hitch a ride there on a supply plane, but it leaves on Friday." Friday. That was five days from now, and it would take at least two days to get Tully to London... Damn. "What should we do, Colonel?"

"We could have him hide in the tunnels," Newkirk suggested.

Tully shook his head. "I have a feeling the major would tear the camp apart looking for me, 'specially after all the trouble he went through to bring me here."

"Maybe you ought to fake your death," Carter put in.

Newkirk gaped at Carter like he'd taken leave of his senses. "You can't be serious, Andrew. That has to be the—"

Hogan held up his hand for quiet. "Say that again, Carter." Carter repeated himself, and he nodded, his brain working overtime and formulating different possible situations. It would be difficult to pull off, but not impossible. They could make it work. He turned to look at Tully, who also appeared to be taking this idea into consideration. "How do you feel about taking a temporary trip to the other side, Tully?"

A quicksilver grin. "Hope the grass is greener over there, sir."

Hogan grinned too. The energy in the room was infectious, and the jazz of planning another mission was already pumping through his veins. "Alright, gents," he said. "Let's give this a shot."


End file.
